Now We Are Dead

I

‘Oh, and I found the cutest set of antique golf clubs in a wee shop today, Robbie.’

‘Uh-huh...’ Roberta scrubbed the soap into her hands, phone pinned between her ear and her shoulder. ‘You really need more golf clubs?’

‘They’re not for playing with, they’re decorative. Six clubs in a lovely leather-and-canvas bag with a stand. I’m going to put it in the living room, next to the—’

The rest of it was drowned out by the roar of the hand dryer.

‘—for dinner?’

‘Yeah, probably.’ She hauled up her trousers. ‘You know: my breeks are definitely looser than they used to be. Must be losing weight. Wasting away cos you don’t feed me enough.’

‘You’re not wasting away. And stop calling me when you’re on the toilet, it’s not hygienic.’

‘Ah well, better get back to it I suppose. Got an idiot waiting for me.’ She hung up and thumped out of the ladies. ‘And there he is.’

Tufty was slumped against the wall outside, looking bored. Poor wee sausage.

God knew what that Wildlife Crime Officer saw in him. The pointy face with bits of red paint still stuck in the crevasses; the dirty-big thumbprint of a black eye. The sulking.

He did one of those teenagers’ sighs. ‘Can we go now?’

‘Hey, when nature calls you can’t just ask it to leave a message. Sometimes you have to...’ Oh for God’s sake.

That frantic nervous wee PC from before — the one running DCI Sodding Rutherford’s errands — came clattering down the stairs and staggered to a halt right in front of her. Peching and heeching like a broken kettle. Face shiny and pink. ‘Sar... Sarge?’

‘No’ you again!’

PC Sweaty-and-Nervous grabbed at the handrail to keep himself upright. ‘Sarge... DCI... DCI Rutherford wants... wants you... both... in his office.’

‘I’m busy.’

‘He was... was very particular... about it... being completely... totally right now.’

She narrowed her eyes and gave the PC a poke. ‘I’m beginning to go off you.’

The boy Rutherford was standing behind his desk with his back to the room, staring out of his office window, hands crossed behind him. As if he was watching a parade marching across the Rear Podium car park six floors below. He didn’t shift as Roberta wandered in. Didn’t say a word. Ride git.

Rutherford wasn’t the only one there, though.

Hissing Sid sat prim as a vicar’s wife in one of the visitors’ chairs. He gave her a teeny shake of the head and a disappointed look.

DI Vine had the other chair. Glowering. ‘About time.’

Behind her, Tufty swore very, very quietly.

The wee loon wasn’t wrong either: this was it, they were dead. Hissing Sid wouldn’t rock up in his fancy suit and leather briefcase if Jack Raping Scumbag Wallace hadn’t made another complaint. And now Rutherford would make good on his threat — Roberta and Tufty, up in front of the firing squad. He’d given them one last chance, but now they were dead. Dead, screwed, buggered, spanked, wingwanged, crudweaselled, and completely and utterly dead.

Didn’t mean she was going quietly, though.

She sniffed. Nodded at Hissing Sid. ‘Going to be one of those meetings, is it?’

‘Detective Sergeant Steel.’ Rutherford kept staring out of his window, but you could’ve shaved your legs on his voice. Probably get frostbite doing it, though. ‘Mr Moir-Farquharson tells me you’ve been hanging around outside Jack Wallace’s house. WHEN I SPECIFICALLY ORDERED YOU NOT TO!’

That boomed around the room, bouncing off the filing cabinets and whiteboards before fading away.

Tufty licked his lips and backed towards the door. ‘Maybe I should just—’

‘Oh no you don’t: you stay right there!’ Rutherford uncrossed his hands — clenched them into fists instead. ‘DS Steel, what did I tell you would happen if you screwed up again? That I would hold Constable Quirrel jointly responsible for your actions. Well congratulations.’

She jerked her chin up, shoulders back. ‘Whatever Jack Wallace said, he’s a lying wee turd.’

Hissing Sid sighed. ‘Actually, in this instance, Mr Wallace has documentary evidence. To wit: a series of photographs of your car parked outside his property on no fewer than a dozen occasions.’

‘Nah, don’t believe you. They’re fake photos.’

Rutherford turned around at that, face all dark and trembling. ‘For God’s sake, Sergeant, you’re not president of the United States; you can’t just say everything incriminating is fake!’ He stuck out his hand. ‘Mr Moir-Farquharson?’

Hissing Sid dug into his briefcase and produced the same slimline laptop as last time. He placed it on the desk and opened it up. Tapped at the keyboard.

The screen filled with a photo of her MX-5, parked beneath the trees outside Wallace’s house, the colours muted in the darkness. Tap. Another night-time photo: her car parked a couple of doors down. Tap. There she was, leaning against one of those trees, a cloud of vapour caught by a streetlight as she puffed on her e-cigarette. Tap. The car again, her face clearly visible through the rain-flecked windscreen as she stared up at the house.

Hissing Sid sighed. ‘And last but not least...’ Tap. In this one she was rummaging through Wallace’s wheelie-bin, a torch clenched between her teeth.

Sod. He did have photographs.

Rutherford placed his fists on the desk. Looming over the laptop. ‘Well?’

‘I know this looks bad, but—’

‘Looks bad? What did I tell you?’

‘I was pursuing an ongoing investigation and—’

‘I TOLD YOU SPECIFICALLY TO STAY AWAY FROM HIM!’

Outside a siren burst into life, fading away into the distance.

The sound of a phone ringing filtered through from the office next door.

Tufty shuffled his feet. ‘Er... Can I...?’ He pointed at the laptop.

DI Vine turned his glower on him. ‘What?’

‘Well, I couldn’t help noticing that DS Steel’s wearing a green shirt and her blue suit in that last photo.’

‘This isn’t Loose Women, Constable, we’re not here for bloody fashion tips!’

‘No, yes, but we took her blue suit to the cleaners a fortnight ago, because Scabby George puked all over it when we did him for peeing off the top of Chapel Street multi-storey car park. She hasn’t had it on since.’ He inched his way forward and pointed at the laptop again. ‘So can I...?’

Hissing Sid shrugged. ‘I have no objection.’

Tufty fiddled about with the laptop’s trackpad.

Rutherford stared at her. ‘Is this true, DS Steel?’

‘Scabby George? Oh aye. He’d been swigging down two-litre bottles of super-strength cider all morning. Said if society thought it was OK to piss on him the whole time, it was only fair he got his own back.’

Tufty held up a hand. ‘Here we go. Look.’ He stepped back from the screen. A window with file information sat on top. ‘The image files’ “created on” dates are weeks and weeks ago. The photos aren’t recent.’

Ooh, you lovely wee spud of a man.

Roberta grinned. ‘So we’re off the hook.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Vine poked at the arm of his chair. ‘That doesn’t change the facts at all.’

‘Aye it does. These photos were all taken before our happy little meeting yesterday.’

‘You were harassing Jack Wallace!’

Thicky McVine clearly wasn’t getting it.

Try again, nice and slow. ‘He took these photos ages ago, right? Then he came in yesterday and forgave everything, remember? You remember him forgiving everything? At the meeting? You were there?’ Then she turned and snapped to attention in front of DCI Rutherford. ‘You ordered me to stand down, sir, and down I jolly well stood!’ She even threw in a salute for good measure.

Rutherford frowned at her for a bit, head on one side. Then nodded. ‘Very well. So, Mr Moir-Farquharson, why is your client bringing this up now?’

She clicked her heels together. ‘I can answer that one, sir. It’s because he’s a stirring wee shite.’

A smile flickered across Moir-Farquharson’s face, before he caught and squashed it.

‘I see.’ Rutherford sank into his office chair. ‘So you’re no longer keeping Jack Wallace’s house under surveillance?’

‘And disobey a direct order from you, Guv? Wouldn’t dream of it.’

DI Vine stood outside in the stairwell, scowling in at her as the lift doors slid shut.

Roberta gave him a wee wave and a wink just before he disappeared.

Miserable jobbie-faced crudweasel that he was.

It wasn’t a huge lift to start with, but when you squeezed in one detective chief inspector, a very expensive criminal lawyer, a sexy bombshell detective sergeant, and a lovely wee Tufty-shaped star, it was more like a coffin that went up and down a bit.

No one said anything, just stood there in awkward silence, trying no’ to rub up against anyone else in a faux-pervy manner.

Roberta leaned closer to Tufty and whispered in his ear. ‘Hope nobody farts!’

The look on his face was thanks enough.

The lift doors pinged open and everyone spurted out like the contents of a squeezed pluke.

Rutherford turned and shook Hissing Sid’s hand. ‘Right, well, I’ll leave DS Steel to show you out.’ He marched off, arms swinging, back stiff. By the left, left, left — right — left.

Soon as he was out of earshot Roberta poked Hissing Sid in his immaculately suited chest. ‘Aye, thanks for that.’

He brushed at his lapel, removing the freshly poked dent. ‘Nothing personal, I can assure you, Detective Sergeant. My client asked me to present his photographs for Police Scotland’s consideration, so here I am.’

Tufty fiddled with the keycode lock then held the door open for them.

She patted him on the back on the way past. ‘Get the teas on. You earned yourself a Jammie Dodger the day.’

He mugged a wee smile. ‘Yes, Sarge.’ And scurried off.

An auld mannie in a tracksuit and hoodie was slumped in the plastic seating that lined the reception area. Other than that, the place was quiet.

‘You no’ a bit expensive to act as a messenger boy, Sandy?’

He followed her across the Police Scotland crest set into the terrazzo flooring. ‘Thankfully Mr Wallace’s associates are very generous with their support. And, to be honest, I enjoy a nice walk in the sunshine.’

‘Generous...’ She stopped, one hand on the ‘DISABLED’ button to open the front doors. Frowned. ‘What did you mean: my friends “came to my aid” and so did his?’

‘Did I say that? Well, well, well.’

‘Sandy!’

No reply.

‘You told me you took my case pro bono, because of all those murderers and rapists you got off!’

‘A small fiction. The individual who covered your legal expenses didn’t wish to be named.’

Oh sodding hell.

She backed away. ‘It wasn’t someone dodgy, was it? A bank robber, or a drug dealer?’

‘Quite the opposite. He merely felt that if you knew your benefactor’s real identity you would have refused my help.’

‘Aye, because I’d turn that down.’ She pressed the button and the doors swung open. Sparked up her e-cigarette and wandered outside, puffing away with her hands in her pockets. Supposed to be ‘Mandarin & Guava’ but it tasted more like Fanta. ‘After that two-faced back-stabbing sack of crap clyped on me to Professional Standards, I needed all the help I could...’

She stared at Hissing Sid.

He smiled calmly back. Then raised an eyebrow.

He didn’t mean... He couldn’t!

‘No, no, no, no, no. You are... You have got to be taking the pish. It can’t have been!’

‘Inspector McRae believed your feelings towards him would cloud your judgement somewhat. He’d recently lost someone close to him and inherited a sum of money from their estate, that’s how he was able to finance your defence.’

‘Oh for God’s sake!’

Tufty opened the door to the CID office and stuck his head in. Lund, Harmsworth and Barrett must’ve sloped off for lunch, because Steel was the only one in there, sitting with her feet up on the desk, frowning at the window.

Another four willies had joined the one on the whiteboard, but they looked sad and disappointed. Lacklustre willies whose hearts weren’t really in it.

Bit like Steel, then.

‘Sarge?’

She kept on frowning at the window. ‘Ever get the feeling someone’s just wheeched the tablecloth away, but instead of all the plates and glasses and stuff just sitting there, it all goes crashing down?’

Very profound.

‘You’ll never guess who’s downstairs.’

‘It was McRae. When his girlfriend died the life insurance paid out big style. That’s how he could afford to hire Hissing Sid to defend me.’

‘See? Told you he was a good guy.’

Her face curdled, wrinkles getting wrinklier around her downturned mouth. ‘Mind you: wouldn’t have needed an expensive slippery lawyer if McRae hadn’t landed me in it in the first sodding place!’

That’s the spirit.

‘Anyway: downstairs. It’s Mrs Galloway’s neighbour, the one with the wee kid.’

Steel went back to staring at the window. ‘But why land me in it, then pay a fortune for Hissing Sid to come drag me out? Doesn’t make any sense...’

‘She wants to make a complaint.’

‘Gah...’ Steel’s head fell back. She covered it with her hands and groaned. Sighed. ‘Of course she does, because that’s how this sharny horrible job works. No one helps, everyone complains.’ A grunt and she stood, slouching and droopy. ‘Might as well get it over with.’

A weird Pot-Noodley smell filled the small reception room. Maybe it lived here? Or maybe it had hitched a ride with Mrs Galloway’s next-door neighbour? She sat with her back to the door, in an AFC away-strip tracksuit that looked a bit too shiny not to be a knock-off. Her toddler stood on the chair next to her, drawing swooping loops of red and green crayon on a sheet of paper.

Steel slumped into the chair opposite and sighed. ‘You want to make a complaint.’

Tufty got his notebook out.

A nod sent her pigtail swaying. ‘I do.’ She took a deep breath and blurted it out: ‘I saw Phil Innes kicking in Mrs Galloway’s door. He’s the one who attacked her. I heard everything.’

Tufty wiggled his eyebrows at Steel, mugging a huge grin.

‘Wh...? Is...?’

The neighbour folded her arms. Swear to God, little crackles of static electricity glowed along those shiny tracksuit sleeves. ‘Well? You going to arrest him now?’

Tufty tapped his pen on his pad. ‘Let’s start at the very beginning, shall we?’

After all, it was a very good place to start.

‘... and get on to the Sheriff’s office.’ Steel rubbed her hands together, Mr Burns style. ‘I want a warrant to go through Philip Innes’s place like a kilo of laxative.’

Tufty gave her a small salute. ‘Yes, Captain, my captain.’

She turned to go, just as Big Gary lumbered up the corridor towards them.

‘Hoy! Where do you two think you’re going?’

‘To do some actual police work, Gary. Don’t know if you remember it...?’

He puffed out his chest, making himself even bigger. ‘Not till you’ve seen to the bus-load of people cluttering up my nice clean reception area, you’re not.’ He pointed a finger at the keycode entry door.

On the other side of the toughened safety-glass panel, reception was packed. Twenty, maybe thirty people overflowed the rows of seats, wandering around the place staring at the ‘HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN?’ posters.

‘And before you ask: yes, they are here to see you.’

Tufty stepped up to the glass. ‘Wow. Looks like half of Cairnhill Court have turned up!’

He poked at the keycode lock and held the door open for Steel and Gary to squeeze past. Stepped through after them and let it swing closed.

An old man wobbled his way up from his seat and shook his walking stick at them. ‘I want to complain about Philip Bloody Innes. I was short twenty quid and he smashed my telly!’

A young woman shuffled forward, chunky in too tight jeans and a much too tight T-shirt. ‘Phil Innes’s been harassing my mum about a loan. She’s fifty-three!’

A frizzy-haired woman with bags under her eyes and two snotty little kids on a leash: ‘He beat the crap out of my husband.’

Steel held up her hands, mouth hanging open. A couple of blinks, then, ‘Anyone here no’ wanting to complain about Philip Innes?’

Not a single soul.

She leaned in and whispered at Tufty. ‘We’re going to need a bigger boat.’

II

‘How much longer?’ Lund peered out through the police van window at the lumpen grey bulk of Division Headquarters.

Harmsworth adjusted his knee and elbow pads — thick black plastic ones that crumpled his suit’s sleeves and trouser legs. ‘We’re not going to get home on time. Again. I just know it.’

‘Come on, come on, come on!’

‘We’re all going to end up in Accident and Emergency, you mark my words. Broken bones and stab wounds all round.’

Barrett checked his clipboard. ‘No mention of Philip Innes ever stabbing anyone. Anyway, I think you should be more worried about ending the day with all your clothes on.’

‘That’s not funny: I was traumatised!’

‘You were bare-arse naked.’

‘Pfff...’ Tufty’s phone buzzed against his ribs. Text message. He pulled it out.

Half two, tomorrow? Hmm...

He typed out a reply:

Send.

The phone buzzed in his hand.

Ah. Suppose they could freeze him, but if they did, would he have to be defrosted before they could cremate him? Wouldn’t want to screw it up...

And maybe it’d be better for Mrs Galloway if this was all done and taken care of? She was already standing out on the ledge. A funeral for her poor wee dog might be the final push.

Send.

Oh no!

It’s a date? What the hell was he thinking?

He stared at his phone’s screen. No. Deleted the last three sentences and hit ‘SEND’.

Lund nudged him. ‘Time is it?’

‘Ten past four.’ He frowned, then slipped his phone back in his pocket. ‘Steel said she’d be right down.’

‘All together now!’ Lund banged out the beat on the van roof, singing:

Finally Steel bustled out of the side door and in behind the wheel. The only one of them not wearing Method of Entry protective kit. Which probably meant she was planning on leading from the rear again.

She started the van and reversed out of the space — looking back over her shoulder at the four of them. ‘Right, you horrible shower, listen up and listen good: Philip Innes is a violent wee crudweasel. He’s got no qualms about putting little old ladies in intensive care. So I don’t want any screw-ups, understand? I don’t want to see so much as a broken fingernail on any of you. And Owen?’

Harmsworth’s bottom lip jutted out. ‘Here we go.’

‘Try to keep your pants on this time, eh?’

The van swung around — narrowly missing taking the wing mirror off Chief Superintendent Campbell’s Bentley — round the back of the mortuary, down Poultry Market Lane and out onto Queen Street.

The tyres squealed as they swung onto Broad Street.

Steel banged on the steering wheel. ‘We are not at home to Mr Fuckup. What are we?’

The response was about as enthusiastic as the half-arsed willies on the CID whiteboard: ‘Not at home to Mr Fuckup.’

She belted the steering wheel again, making it ring. ‘I–CAN’T — HEAR — YOU!’

This time they all belted it out: ‘WE’RE NOT AT HOME TO MR FUCKUP!’

Steel grinned.

Steel turned onto Cairncry Drive and put her foot down. The police van surged forward, shoving her back in her seat as they raced down the middle of the road — then a screech of brakes as she yanked the steering wheel left. Jerking to a halt just shy of Philip Innes’s shiny black Jaguar. ‘Release the hounds!’

Tufty hauled open the sliding door and Harmsworth leapt out — Barrett close on his heels. Lund grabbed the Big Red Door Key and ran after them, leaving him to bring up the rear. Leaping the two steps up to the garden path.

Harmsworth and Barrett stepped aside, leaving the door clear for Lund.

‘Hot potato!’ She swung the mini battering ram back as she ran, screeching to a halt just in front of the white UPVC and letting the thing smash forward. The whole door exploded inwards with a BOOM!

This was it.

Barrett was first inside. ‘POLICE! NOBODY MOVE!’

Tufty and Harmsworth swarmed in after him.

Down at the end of the corridor, Barrett kicked a door open revealing a swanky kitchen.

Harmsworth charged up the stairs. ‘POLICE!’

Tufty bashed through the first door on the right. ‘EVERYBODY ON THE GROUND: NOW!’

The living room was a proper man cave: a full-sized pool table and massive entertainment system, a bar in the corner complete with optics, arty prints of naked ladies on the walls, two black leather recliners and a matching couch.

Phil Innes was sitting on it. Still and quiet. Head bowed. Shoulders quivering.

Tufty clacked out his extendable baton. ‘Philip Innes, I’m detaining you under Section Fourteen of the Criminal Justice... Scotland?’

Innes wiped a hand across his eyes, sniffed, and stood. Held both of his arms out, wrists together. ‘I’ll...’ Another sniff. ‘I’ll come quietly.’

Lund poked her head into the lounge. ‘Rest of the house is clear. You got him?’

Innes stared down at his proffered wrists. ‘I just... I just want to say that I’m very, very, very sorry for what I did. I’m a... I’m a bad man...’ His bottom lip went, followed by full-on sobbing.

‘Er...’ Tufty stepped closer and patted him on the shoulder. ‘There, there?’

‘Right, that’s the lot.’ Barrett eased past them with his blue plastic evidence crate. ‘We’ve got about forty Post Office account books, hundreds of bank statements, twenty-one notebooks detailing loans and repayments, and sixty debit and credit cards. None of which are in Philip Innes’s name.’

Tufty sucked on his teeth. ‘Weird that he just gave it all up like that. Why didn’t he... I don’t know, try to hide it instead of piling it all up on the kitchen table for us?’

‘Hello?’ Harmsworth peered around the edge of the battered UPVC door he was holding. ‘I know it’s only me, and hernias are oh-so-funny, but can we get this done please!’

‘Oh, right.’ Tufty fixed a Phillips-head to the cordless drill and held his hand out to Steel. ‘Screw me.’

She stared back. ‘Want to rephrase that?’

‘I’m not kidding — this door is really heavy!’

Tufty tried again. ‘Can I have a screw please, Sarge?’

‘That’s no’ sounding any better.’ She held out a handful of them, though.

‘I’m going to drop this if you don’t get a shift on!’

‘All right, all right.’ Tufty helped him manoeuvre the door back into the hole it was battered out of. ‘Come on, Owen, hold the damn thing still.’ The brass-colour screws bit through the UPVC and into the wooden frame.

Harmsworth sighed. ‘It’s nice not to get stabbed or bitten for a change, but all in all, it was a bit of an anticlimax.’

‘Aye, that’s enough about your love life, Owen. Keep your mind on the job.’ She handed Tufty another couple of screws.

He turned to Tufty. ‘You know what I mean? We get all dressed up and swarm out of the van and bash the door down and really put the work in.’

‘Hold it steady...’ Screw, screw, screw, screw.

‘The least he could’ve done was resist arrest a little bit. Shown willing.’

Tufty gave the screwed-up door a wiggle — solid as a solid thing — and stepped back. ‘There we go. All done.’

‘Wasn’t too much to ask for, was it? Little effort on his part?’ Harmsworth stared at them for a moment, then shook his head and slouched back towards the van. ‘But what does Owen know?’

Soon as the van door shut, Tufty had a quick look around to make sure no one was listening. Then leaned in close to Steel. ‘Sarge, there wasn’t a mark on Innes. Not a single one.’

‘Course no’.’ She took the drill from his hands. ‘Why would there be?’

‘So what did he do? Your mate, James Grieve? He must’ve done something.’

‘God might move in mysterious ways, Tufty, but he’s got nothing on Big Jimmy Grieve.’ She dropped into a semi-squatting Charlie’s Angels pose, firing off a few vwwwwwwippps with the drill. ‘Now get your arse in the van. We’ve a couple of wee stops to make on the way home.’

Tufty climbed back into the van with his collection of paper bags, their white sides already turning see-through from the greasy treats inside.

He handed a bag to Barrett: ‘One mince, one steak.’ One to Lund: ‘Sausage roll and a bridie.’ One to Steel. ‘Two steak.’ And one to Harmsworth. ‘Chicken-curry pies aren’t ready yet, so I got you a bacon butty and a fondant fancy.’

‘Why does life hate me?’

Phil Innes stared over his shoulder at them from inside his grilled enclosure. ‘That all smells really nice.’

Steel unwrapped a pie and took a big bite. ‘Tough. You’re getting nothing, cos you’ve been naughty.’ She started the engine. ‘Seatbelts, children.’ Then stuffed the pie in her mouth, leaving her hands free to haul the van through a three-point turn, mumbling around the pastry case. ‘One more stop.’

Steel hauled on the handbrake. ‘Everyone remember where we parked.’ She hopped out.

Tufty, Lund, Barrett, and Harmsworth clambered out through the sliding door and joined her around the back of the police van.

‘Sarge?’

‘Barrett, you and Lund are on prisoner escort duty. If you let him run away I will personally skin your intimate feminine areas with a potato peeler, are we clear?’

They nodded.

She clicked her fingers. ‘Constable Quirrel, if you would be so kind as to fetch Mr Innes from the van?’

Tufty wiped the pastry crumbs from his fingers and unlocked the back doors.

Innes peered out at them. He was sitting in the middle of the three rear-facing seats, all handcuffed and seatbelted in. His bloodshot eyes drifted to what was behind them. Widened. He shrank back into his seat. ‘This isn’t the police station. This isn’t the police station!’

‘No, Philippy Willippy,’ Steel grinned, ‘it’s the hospital. You’re paying a visit and you’re paying it now.’

‘Please, don’t! I wasn’t—’

‘Barrett, Lund: get that snottery sack of sick out of there.’

They stepped forward, Lund rolling her shoulders. ‘Come on, you. Out.’

Tufty tugged at Steel’s sleeve, keeping his voice down so no one would hear. ‘Sarge, are you sure this is legal? Cos I really don’t think it’s legal.’

‘Course it’s no’.’ She beamed at him as Phil Innes was hauled out of the van’s cage. ‘But Philippy Willippy isn’t going to tell anyone. Are you, Philippy?’

Innes just bit his bottom lip and shook his head.

‘Good boy.’ She turned and sauntered towards one of the hospital’s side entrances. ‘Off we go.’

They frogmarched Innes in through the doors and over to a bank of scuff-fronted lifts.

The doors juddered open and they all stepped inside, Phil Innes squeezed between Lund and Barrett. Sweating. Fidgeting as the lift clunked and rattled upwards.

Lund poked him. ‘Stand still.’

The lift creaked to a halt and the doors slid open again.

Steel was first out. ‘From here on it’s radio silence. No whinging, moaning, or making fun of Constable Harmsworth.’

He sniffed, nose in the air. ‘About time too.’

‘You can save that for the way back down again.’

‘Hey!’

But she was off, marching down the corridor.

Lund and Barrett did their frogmarching trick again, scooting Innes along after her. All the way down to the private room at the end.

Steel stuck a finger to her lips then pointed at the lot of them. ‘No’ a sodding word, understand?’

Everyone kept their gobs shut.

‘Good. Keep it that way.’ Then she slipped into Mrs Galloway’s room.

Tufty stepped up to the window.

Mrs Galloway made a thin frail figure in the bed, lying beneath the sheets, every visible inch of skin a rainbow of bruises. And Steel wasn’t the only visitor. Big Jimmy Grieve sat in the chair on the far side of her bed, head buried in a book.

He looked up at Steel and nodded. Said something.

She said something back. Then turned to the poor battered old lady. Steel’s lips moved, but it was impossible to hear what she was saying. Then she waved at the window.

They were on.

Lund gave Innes another poke. ‘I’m watching you, sunshine.’

He really didn’t look well. Pale and clammy. His whole body trembling.

They all shuffled inside, Tufty and Innes at the front.

Soon as everyone was in and the door closed, Tufty took out his key and undid the cuffs.

Innes made a little squeaky noise.

‘Right.’ Steel folded her arms. ‘You’ve got something to say to Mrs Galloway, haven’t you?’

‘I’m...’ Innes sounded more like a spanked child than a loanshark. ‘I... I’m very, very sorry for what I’ve done. I’m... I’m a horrible, horrible person.’

Big Jimmy Grieve stared at him. ‘Keep going.’

‘Keep going... Right.’ He licked his lips. Then pulled an envelope from his inside pocket. A standard one — the kind you could fit an A4 sheet of paper into if you folded it in three. Only there was a lot of paper in this one. It was about an inch thick. ‘And... and I want you to have this.’

He edged forward, the envelope held out at arm’s length, keeping as much hospital bed between himself and Big Jimmy Grieve as possible. Placed it on the covers by her broken arm.

Mrs Galloway just looked at it.

Innes shrank back away from the bed again. ‘Three thousand, two hundred, and seventy pounds. All yours. I...’ His eyes drifted from the envelope to Big Jimmy Grieve for a second, then snapped down to stare at his own hands, clenched in front of his groin. ‘I should never have charged you interest on a loan. That was illegal and I had no right doing it. I’m really, really sorry.’

A nod from Big Jimmy Grieve. ‘And?’

‘And I won’t do it again?’

That quiet still note slipped into the big man’s voice again. ‘Try harder.’

‘Right. Yes. Harder. And I... I want you to have my car as an apology!’ Babbling it out as he tossed his keys down beside the envelope. ‘It’s a Jaguar XJ with leather trim and heated seats...’

‘And?’

Phil Innes’s bottom lip wobbled, his eyes wet and glistening. ‘And... And my watch too?’

‘There we go.’ Big Jimmy Grieve smiled. ‘Now, doesn’t that make you feel a bit better about yourself, Philip?’

He wiped a hand across his tear-moistened face. ‘Please can I go to prison now?’

III

Lund checked Phil Innes was all seatbelted in, then climbed out of the cage and locked the van’s back door. She hooked a thumb at it. ‘Ready to go when you are, Sarge.’

Steel nodded. ‘Give us a minute, Veronica. Got some business to finish.’

Tufty shuffled his feet as Lund climbed in through the police van’s side door and slid it shut, leaving him all alone with Steel and the horror that was Big Jimmy Grieve. ‘Er, Sarge? Do you want I should...?’ Pointing back at the van.

‘You stay where you are. Might learn something.’ Then Steel turned her back on him. ‘Still got it, Mr Grieve.’

A modest shrug from those broad granite shoulders.

‘As a gesture of our gratitude, I shall present you with your usual fee...’ She held out her hand to Tufty for some reason. Like he had the slightest clue what was going on here.

‘I have no idea what you’re— Ow!’

She smacked him on the back of the head again.

‘Ow!’

‘Get the rowies.’

Rowies? They were all mad.

He hurried around to the passenger side, opened the door, retrieved the greasy paper bag from the dashboard, and hurried back again. Passed it to Steel. Who handed it to Big Jimmy Grieve.

‘Half a dozen. You can count them, if you want?’

Big Jimmy Grieve weighed the bag in his hand. ‘I trust you. Now, if we’re all done here, it’s Friday, it’s half past five, and I have a bird table to put up.’

He turned to go.

OK, so it was now or never.

Tufty cleared his throat. ‘Mr Grieve?’

The huge figure stopped, looked back over his shoulder. Made the kind of eye contact that caused perfectly brave detective constables’ bowels to clench.

Right.

Here we go.

Deep breath. ‘What did you do to Philip Innes? He was... It was like someone had run over him with a steamroller — squeezed the horrible right out of him. What are his defence going to hit us with when this goes to trial?’ Tufty’s chin came up: getting his righteous on with every sentence. ‘I want to know what you did.’

Big Jimmy Grieve walked over until he was right in front of him — the tips of his boots pressing into Tufty’s — and stood there. Not moving. Not saying anything. Just staring with those frozen granite eyes...

Yeah.

Maybe not.

Definitely not.

Tufty swallowed, backed away, pointing over his shoulder at the van. ‘I’m gonna just... Erm...’

Big Jimmy Grieve looked at Steel. ‘They don’t get any brighter, do they?’

‘I keep hoping, but no.’

Tufty hauled the side door open and clambered inside. Thumped it closed again. Locked it.

Sank into his seat.

And nearly jumped straight back out of it as a hand landed on his shoulder. He didn’t mean to go, ‘Eeek!’ he really didn’t.

Lund gave his shoulder a little squeeze. ‘Did we try measuring willies with Big Jimmy Grieve? Did we lose?’

Outside, Steel stood on her tiptoes and kissed Mr Grieve on the cheek.

The hulking monster nodded, stared in through the police van windows for a heartbeat too many — like he was memorising Tufty’s face and planning on rearranging it with his boot at some point — then lumbered off.

A shudder rippled its way down Tufty’s back. ‘That is, without any kind of doubt, the scariest motherfunker I have ever met.’

Tufty shoved the CID door open and bounded inside like a labradoodle puppy, belting out a one-man fanfare. ‘Tan-tan-ta-ta!’

Barrett, Lund, and Harmsworth spun around in their office chairs as Roberta swaggered in, both hands up flashing the victory Vs.

She sang it out: ‘We are the champions!’

Lund beamed. ‘He cop to it?’

‘Didn’t even try to “no comment”.’ Roberta danced a couple of wee pas de basques. ‘Shortest interview I’ve ever done: aggravated assault, animal cruelty, illegal money lending, harassment, and forty-nine other offences to be taken into consideration. CHAMPIONS!’ Another two pas de basques, three high cuts, and done. She stood there grinning at them. Lowered her arms. ‘We, my little love-monkeys, are off to the pub tonight to celebrate!’

Lund punched the air. ‘Rippa!’

‘Actually...’ Barrett held up a hand. ‘Remember we’ve got that farmers’ protest tomorrow morning? And the TV will be there, so we’ve got a full kit inspection first thing.’

‘Aye, so?’

‘So, perhaps, flaming Sambucas till three in the morning isn’t such a good idea?’

Cagney & Lacey belted out into the room. ‘Hold that thought.’ She pulled out her phone.

‘UNKNOWN NUMBER’.

Roberta pressed the button. ‘Hello?’

Sodding Jack Sodding Wallace. ‘Well, well: if it isn’t my favourite demoted police officer.’

The phone groaned a little as she squeezed it. ‘What the hell do you want?’

‘Did you enjoy seeing my photographs? Good, weren’t they?’

She poked at the screen again, putting it on speakerphone. ‘You know where you can stick your photos, Wallace?’

Everyone in the room gathered closer, staring at her mobile as his slimy voice slithered out of the speaker again.

‘Oh, don’t be so grumpy. I’m just here enjoying a nice meal at Doug’s Dinner, with my mates, and thought I’d check in. We’ve been here, oh, at least, what?’

A muffled voice in the background: ‘Hour and a half?’

Tufty pulled a face at her, then scurried over to the whiteboard, wiping off the words of the day and the collection of willies scrawled up there.

‘An hour and a half. Now we’re off to see a film. Something exciting. Should take us till... oh, about half nine?’

‘Yawn.’ Roberta perched on the edge of the nearest desk. ‘And I care because?’

Tufty yanked the top off a whiteboard pen, printed the word ‘ALIBI!!!’ in big red letters and underlined it. Made big pantomime gestures at the board.

Goat-buggering hell in a carrier bag: the wee sod was right. ‘Wallace? What have you done?’

‘Me?’ A greasy little laugh. ‘Nothing. That’s the point.’

And the line went dead. He’d hung up.

Roberta stared at the screen, then out at her team. ‘Grab your coats and handcuffs: we’re going out again. Now!’ She marched from the room, scrolling through her contacts as everyone scurried into place behind her. Poked the button and set it ringing. ‘Tufty: get us a Black Maria. Owen: you and Davey—’

A sharp impatient voice battered out of her phone. ‘Vine.’

‘Aye, John — Jack Wallace is up to something.’

‘Oh in the name of... We’ve been over this! You can’t just—’

‘Will you pin back your lugs for two minutes?’ She barged through the double doors at the end of the corridor, boot heels echoing back off the concrete stairwell. ‘Wallace just called me.’

Tufty squeezed past, taking the steps two at a time.

They all hurried down after him.

‘Look, I’m in the middle of an investigation here, so—’

‘Wallace wanted me to know that he’d been at dinner with his mates for an hour and a half, and then he was off to the pictures till half nine.’

Vine’s voice got darker and louder. ‘And you actually thought that was important enough to interrupt a—’

‘He’s setting up another alibi.’ Around the landing and down the next flight. ‘Some poor woman’s getting raped tonight!’

One last flight of stairs and along a corridor lined with ‘WANTED’ posters.

‘John? You still there?’

She barged out through the door at the end and into the car park reserved for police vans.

‘Detective Inspector Vine?’

Tufty came sprinting around the corner, waving a set of keys with a pink fuzzy fob dangling off them. ‘Got it!’

The sound of a child crying came from the phone’s speaker, then some scrunching noises.

‘Did you hear me? Some woman’s about to get raped!’

Tufty unlocked the van and they all piled inside. ‘Buckle up, people!’

Roberta clambered into the passenger side as Vine’s voice came back on. All flat — the anger drained out of it.

‘I see.’ He cleared his throat. ‘You’re too late.’

‘FUCK!’ She punched the dashboard as Tufty hauled the van around the right way and roared away down Poultry Market Lane.

‘Where am I going?’

‘Union Square.’ Back to the phone. ‘I bloody well told you, didn’t I?’

‘Just... don’t. OK?’ That wee kid was still wailing in the background. ‘Karen Marsh. Teacher. On maternity leave. I’ve seen some things in my time, but... Jesus.’

The van burst out from behind Division Headquarters and onto Queen Street. Tufty hit the ‘999’ button and the sirens screeched, blue-and-whites flickering back from the parked cars and shop windows.

‘We’re on our way to arrest Jack Wallace.’

Vine groaned. ‘If he phoned you to boast about his alibi, what do you think the chances are it’s waterproof? Because he knows we’ll check.’

‘It’s fake. It has to be.’ She grabbed the handle above her door as the van screeched around the corner onto Broad Street. ‘He claims he’s at Union Square. We’re going to pull the security camera footage and drag his raping arse out of the cinema.’

‘Can you hear yourself? If he’s on camera there, and he’s still at the pictures, he — couldn’t — have — done — this.’

‘He’s still involved! He knows!’

Right, onto Union Street, the traffic parting before them as Tufty gunned it.

‘And how do we prove it? What magical bloody fairy wand do we wave to make that one stick?’

‘We can’t just sit on our thumbs and do nothing: women are getting raped!’

The traffic lights up ahead were red, Tufty pulled out onto the wrong side of the road, jabbing at the horn as a big blue Isuzu D-Max blocked the box junction, the bearded idiot behind the wheel grimacing at them as if that was going to help.

‘No. We can’t sit on our thumbs. But you have to.’

Finally the idiot reversed out of the way and the van roared forwards, round onto Market Street.

‘I’m no’—’

‘Send two of your team to review the security footage. They can haul Wallace out of the cinema too: make sure he’s not slipped out through a side door. But you go nowhere near him, understand?’

Aye, right.

‘He’s involved!’

‘They’re — going — to — fire — you, Roberta! Stay the hell away from Jack Wallace.’

The van wheeched around the corner and onto Guild Street. The dark, rectangular, grey bulk of Union Square loomed up ahead. They eased their way around a cluster of buses, through two red lights, past the Jury’s Inn and right up to the metal bollards outside Union Square.

‘Did you hear what I said? They’ll fire you.’

Roberta sniffed. Stared out of the window at the shopping centre’s huge glass façade, bolted onto the side of the train station. ‘Didn’t know you cared.’

‘You’re a good police officer, Roberta, you just... got obsessed and lost your way. This is your second chance, don’t piss it away on a piece of dirt like Jack Wallace. We’ll get him.’

‘Oh my...’ She put a hand over her heart. ‘Think I’m tearing up a little... I mean, I’m a married woman, but yes! Yes, I will run away with you!’

‘I’m serious.’

A sigh, then she sagged back in her seat. ‘Fine.’

‘Good. Let me know if your team finds anything.’ He hung up.

She stuffed her phone back in its pocket.

Stay away from Jack Wallace. They’ll fire you. You’re a good police officer, Roberta. We love you, Roberta. Please don’t leave us.

She scrunched her face closed. Took a deep breath. Bellowed it out: ‘AAAAAAAARGH!’ Grabbed at the dashboard, fingernails digging into the plastic as she wrenched herself back and forward six or seven times making it creak and groan. Then let go and slumped.

Everyone was staring at her, mouths pursed, eyebrows raised.

A shrug. ‘I hate it when they’re so sodding reasonable.’ She waved a hand at the back seats. ‘Davey: you and Veronica go check out Wallace’s alibi.’

Barrett clutched his clipboard. ‘Sarge.’

Lund hauled open the door and they both hopped out onto the cobbles. Marched away towards Union Square.

Harmsworth slid the door shut again then shoogled forward. ‘Well done. It’ll be good for them to handle a wee job on their own. They might learn something.’

Tufty tapped the steering wheel. ‘Do we wait for them, or are we back to the station?’

‘Pfff...’ Roberta shook her head. ‘No point hanging about. Might as well go back to the ranch.’

‘Sarge.’ He pulled the van around in a lumpy four-point turn.

Harmsworth changed seats so he was in the ones directly behind the front, facing the other way. ‘And it won’t hurt DC Barrett to miss the first couple of drinks in the pub. He gets far too loud and irritating with six pints in him. And as for Lund? Pffff...’ He turned in his seat, draping an arm around both her and Tufty’s shoulders. ‘We’re the heart of the team. It’s only fitting we—’

Roberta brushed his hand away. ‘Sit your arse back down, Owen, and put your seatbelt on. They won’t let me arrest Wallace, but I swear on God’s fluffy slippers: I’m arresting someone tonight if it kills me.’

Roberta banged both the rear doors open and swept into the custody block like an outraged parent, Tufty scurrying along in her wake. A tubby PC in the full going-out kit was in front of the custody desk, holding onto a bootfaced middle-aged wifie dressed in fishnets, a short skirt, and a PVC leather jacket. Hair all Brillo pad.

Downie was on the desk again, peering at her over the top of his glasses. ‘I see. And did the gentleman in question pay for these amorous services in advance, or does he have an account?’

‘Oh aye, and a frequent flyer card and all. We give Nectar points these days, you know?’

‘Hoy, Downie!’ Roberta stormed up to the desk. ‘Who did you give that mobile phone to? The stolen one? I want a name!’

The bootfaced prostitute stuck her nose in the air. ‘Do you mind? Me and Sergeant Downie is having an intimate moment here.’

‘Shove it, Dorothy.’ Roberta jabbed a finger. ‘Don’t screw with me tonight, Downie: Susan swears I’m menopausal and I’m looking for a fight.’

He took off his glasses. ‘If you’d checked your pigeon hole at the start of the shift you’d have found out, wouldn’t you?’

She balled her fists. ‘Don’t say you weren’t warned...’

His eyes widened, then he ducked down, below the desk — coming back up with a work book. Flicked through it. ‘Phone, phone, phone... Ah, yes. Here we are.’

Downie spun the book around and pushed it towards her.

She squinted at it — all blurry and out of focus. ‘How am I supposed to read that? Your handwriting’s like two spiders fighting a hedgehog.’

‘My handwriting is perfectly clear, thank you very much. It says, “Peter Stephenson, twenty-four Lochnagar Drive”.’

Peter...?

Uncle Pete.

Married to horrible Aunt Vicki.

The scumbag who took those porn pics of Josie Stephenson was her uncle.

Roberta bared her teeth. ‘Dirty... GRAAAAAAH!’ She thumped her fist down on the desk. Growling it out. ‘Constable Quirrel: back in the van!’

IV

‘YOU BASTARD! YOU FILTHY PERVERT BASTARD!’ Aunt Vicki lunged, swinging her claws.

Harmsworth grabbed her, holding on as Tufty marched Peter Stephenson out of the living room. The place could’ve starred in a supermarket magazine: a wallpaper feature wall with ferny fronds on it, loads of Ikea furniture, themed ornaments and throw pillows, pebbles and bits of driftwood in frames above the fireplace, a fake log fire flickering gaily away to itself.

And yes, they could have let Uncle Pete get dressed, but sod it. Getting dragged down the station in his boxer shorts, beige slippers, and an old T-shirt would be good practice for him. Going to be plenty more humiliation where he was going.

Roberta slipped the previously stolen Nokia into an evidence bag. Glanced at Aunt Vicki. ‘Do you want to tell Josie’s mum, or will we?’

‘If I ever see that bastard again I’ll kill him!’

No’ a bad plan.

‘So...?’

Aunt Vicki’s chin came up. ‘You do it. I’ll never be able to look her in the eye again after this. Because of that BASTARD!’ Still struggling in Harmsworth’s hairy embrace.

‘Fair enough.’ Roberta turned and wandered out into the evening.

She’d barely gone halfway down the garden path before Aunt Vicki exploded from the front door. Screaming at the broken droopy wee figure of her husband as Tufty man-handled him into the back of the police van.

‘YOU’RE DEAD TO ME, YOU HEAR ME, PERVERT? YOU’RE DEAD!’

Harmsworth bustled out after her. Grabbed her arms again. ‘It’s not my fault, Sarge, she bit me!’

‘YOU’RE DEAD, YOU KIDDY-FIDDLING PAEDO BASTARD! DEAD!’

‘Get her back inside.’

‘Sarge.’

Every window had someone peering out of it, getting a good eyeful of the wee domestic drama playing out on their cosy middle-class street. The dinner-party set would be dining out on it for months.

Roberta scuffed over to the van.

Tufty was strapping scumbag Uncle Pete into the cage. Snapping the seatbelt over his handcuffs. After all, wouldn’t want him hurting himself before someone got the chance to shank him in the prison showers.

Soon as Uncle Pete was all trussed up and cosy, Roberta hooked a thumb over her shoulder. ‘Constable Quirrel, go give Owen a hand calming the wife down before she breaks something.’

He looked at her, then at the house, then back again, a worried frown on his weaselly face. ‘Sarge? You’re not...?’ Nodding at Uncle Pete.

‘Now, Constable.’

‘OK...’ He scurried off back into the house.

She gave it a count of ten, then climbed into the prisoner cage and thumped the doors shut behind her. Glowered.

Uncle Pete was folded as far over as the seatbelt would allow. ‘Oh God, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry...’

‘Your brother’s dying in hospital and you’re screwing his fifteen-year-old daughter.’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to...’

‘YOU TOOK PHOTOS OF IT ON YOUR BLOODY PHONE!’ It boomed around the van like thunder.

He shrank back into his seat.

Roberta took a breath. Hissed it out. Calm.

‘You pin back your lugs and you listen good: we’re going to take you back to Queen Street and process you. You’re going to call your solicitor and he’s going to tell you to “no comment” the whole thing. He’ll tell you if you keep your mouth shut he might be able to get you off with a slap on the wrists.’ She held up the evidence bag with the offending DIY-porn-filled Nokia in it. ‘And then we’ll all have to go to court. They’ll put Josie on the stand and make her tell the world how her uncle abused her. We’ll have to show the photos. In court. In front of her mum, while her father’s dying. You going to put Josie through that?’

‘I... love her.’

‘Because either way, Good Old Uncle Pete’s off to prison.’

He stared at his bare knees. Sniffed. Cleared his throat. Did his best to sound reasonable. ‘It wasn’t my idea. She got me drunk and—’

‘DON’T YOU BLOODY DARE! You’re a middle-aged man and she’s fifteen.’

‘But—’

‘Let’s count off how screwed you are, shall we?’ She stuck out her thumb: ‘Sex with an older child.’ Forefinger: ‘Sexual abuse of trust.’ Middle finger: ‘Making indecent images of a child.’ Ring finger: ‘Attempting to pervert the course of justice.’ She stepped closer, looming over him in the back of the van. ‘And you know what, Petey-boy? I’d love you to “no comment”, because if you don’t plead guilty before the trial we get to send you down for twenty-nine years.’

‘Twenty...?’ His cheeks paled, then his mouth fell open. A smear of snot glistened on his top lip.

‘Twenty-nine years locked up with all the other paedos and rapists.’ OK, so that wasn’t strictly true — get a soft enough sheriff and they’d bundle all four charges into one concurrent job-lot, which meant fourteen years max — but Good Old Uncle Pete didn’t know that. ‘And if you tell anyone about this conversation, I swear to God the nonces in prison are going to be the least of your troubles. Understand?’

Uncle Pete collapsed into himself and sobbed.

‘Good.’ She climbed out, slammed the van doors hard enough to make the whole thing rock on its suspension. Turned, and marched back to the house.

Tufty was waiting for her. ‘Sarge?’

‘The wife any calmer?’

‘Stopped screaming, which is nice.’ He shuffled his feet and stared over her shoulder at the van. ‘Er, Sarge, you didn’t...?’

‘When we get back to the ranch, you process and interview him.’

Tufty raised an eyebrow. ‘You don’t want to?’

‘No. Because if I have to look at his slimy wee face once more tonight, I’m going to do what you think I just did. Only harder. And with a baseball bat.’

North Deeside Drive drifted by the van windows, the grumbling diesel engine no’ quite loud enough to drown out Uncle Pete sobbing in the cage at the back.

Big houses, big gardens, big hedges, big trees, all painted in sparkling sunshine.

Roberta’s phone buzzed at her, like a teeny ineffective vibrator. Text message:

True.

She was halfway through thumbing out a reply when the thing launched into Cagney & Lacey. ‘WEE DAVEY BARRETT’ popped up on screen. She hit the button. ‘Davey? Tell me you’ve got good news for your lovely Aunty Roberta.’

‘Sorry, Sarge. We’ve been through the security camera footage and Jack Wallace was right where he said he was. Doug’s Dinner for an hour and three-quarters, then off to the cinema to see Once Upon a Time in Dundee.’

She frowned out at a chunk of parkland. Happy couples strolling hand-in-hand along the winding path. ‘Maybe he slipped out?’

‘Nope. We went through the restaurant’s footage too — longest he’s away from the table is a five-minute trip to the loo. We rousted him from Screen Four, just as Ewan McGregor was mid-shootout in the Overgate Centre. Got a lot of swearing chucked our way when we had the lights turned on. Him and his two buddies were right in the middle of a row. No way they could’ve sneaked away with no one noticing.’

Gah...

The perfect end to the perfect day.

Roberta sagged back in her seat and covered her eyes with a hand. ‘Thanks, Davey. You and Lund write it up and head off home.’

‘Cheers, Sarge.’

And, no doubt, tomorrow there’d be yet another visit from Jack Bloody Wallace and Hissing Sodding Sid. In to moan about how the poor raping wee turdbasket was being ‘harassed’.

Tufty poked her in the shoulder. ‘Sarge, you OK?’

‘No. No I’m not.’ She deleted her text to Susan and composed a new reply:

Send.

And you know what? Good riddance to the lot of them.

Tufty was looking at her with that spanked puppy dog expression on his stupid face. ‘Want to talk about it?’

‘No. I want to go home and get very, very drunk.’

Whatever crap was coming tomorrow could wait.